


Peter and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good . . . Very Best Day

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Harry Osborn, Mentions of Rhino, Minor Injuries, Past Harry Osborn/Peter Parker - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform, crime-fighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7804396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool is impulsive, has a <i>big</i> mouth, and absolutely no tact. And Ellie . . . well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. See end notes for prompt.</p><p>Notes/Warnings: AU, as per usual. Um, spoilers for the Deadpool comics and maybe the future movies are in the description, never mind the story, itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peter and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good . . . Very Best Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tie/gifts), [green_ld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_ld/gifts).



As the police, firefighters, and other emergency services-types began their canvasing-securing-cleaning up of NoLiTa, Spider-Man, a.k.a Peter Benjamin Parker, staggered off away from the reporters swarming the scene like . . . a swarm of . . . swarmy-things, that come in . . . swarms. . . .

 

 _Bees_? Peter wondered absently, cudgeling his utterly _fried_ brain to try to finish the simile . . . simply because he hated leaving _anything_ unfinished, even in his own mind. _Or is it_ grasshoppers _? Or ants? Gotta ask Scott, next time I see him, if his ant-buddies_ swarm _. Maybe they_ troop _. Or some other term. Gosh, I hope I don’t offend him. . . ._

 

His mental babble, which was normally a universal constant, like gravity, or getting audited by the IRS every year since he’d started working—seriously, even with _two_ jobs, Peter made, like, twelve dollars a year . . . _why_ was he always getting audited?—faded into an exhausted, white noise, stand-by hum as he straggled away from the noise and flash-photography, and toward the more quiet end of the cordoned-off street. He was making for the alley where he’d left his backpack with his stuff—baddies like Rhino always seemed to strike in the afternoon, rather than at night. And on Peter’s lunch-break, no less. But at least this time, he’d been at his internship at Stark Industries, rather than at the _Bugle_. Mr. Stark was much more understanding about Peter’s need to take the occasional long lunch or even day off than J.J. Jameson was—when he noticed a lone figure in red and black sitting on a kerb, elbows on knees and head in hands, staring into space in the direction of the bombed-out _CVS_ Spider-Man had accidentally thrown Rhino at. Peter’s tired, achy feet immediately course-corrected, taking him toward that lone figure.

 

“Nice day for it, huh, Spidey?” Deadpool said wearily, with a sigh, as Peter flopped down onto the kerb next to him, feet in the dusty, garbage-strewn gutter. He ignored the occasional splashes of blood, which got bigger going toward the _CVS_ and smaller going toward where Deadpool—who had many tears in his suit, through which peeked scarred, painful-looking skin—sat brooding uncharacteristically. Deadpool had apparently been shopping in the now-defunct drugstore when the shit went down. Lucky for Spider-Man, too, because he’d needed all the help he could get, this time. Rhino had been in rare form.

 

“Oh, yeah. _Great_ day for destroying a small neighborhood in Manhattan.” Peter hummed a little, sagging and letting his shoulders slump. He briefly thought that J.J. was going to have his ass for not getting pictures of today. But whatever. J.J. was always tearing him a new one for some reason or other. The day Peter didn’t get summarily fired from—and rehired at—the _Bugle_ at least twice before lunch, was the day J.J. was taken over by a pod-person or shapeshifter. “Thanks for the assist with that asshole, Wade.”

 

“Ah, no problem, Petey.” Deadpool waved a hand—well, flopped it with minimum effort—then went back to leaning on it. “I was in the neighborhood, anyway.”

 

“Mm.” Peter knew that Deadpool had only been _in the neighborhood_ because he and Ellie now lived within easy walking distance of NoLiTa. “How’s the new place workin’ out, by the way?”

 

“Not bad, not bad.” Deadpool sighed again, contented, but yes, very tired, too. Then he yawned. “Got an elevator, unlike the old place. I fucking _hate_ walk-ups. They’re not made for tiny little legs like Ellie’s . . . all those damn stairs,” he groused, as he had to Peter many times before about the same subject. Especially before he’d moved a month ago. But then he perked up considerably, posture straightening. “Ya gotta come over to the new place, Pete. It’s pretty sweet—ha! That rhymed! And I wasn’t even _tryin’_! _No_ , White, I _wasn’t_ trying, fuck you very much! Take that back!—and I've still got _Mario Kart_ and _Little Big Planet 2 GOTY Edition_. And we haven’t finished _Dead Space_ , yet. . . .”

 

“Meh.” Peter shrugged, though it was more than half-shudder. “ _Dead Space_ scares the ever-lovin’ _spam_ outta me, DP. You know that. I’ll take you up on the others, but not that one. Not anymore. Gives me nightmares.”

 

“Aw, poor Spidey, havin’ bad, ol’ dreams?” Deadpool was leering behind the mask. Peter knew, after years of experience, _exactly_ what that sounded like, even when he couldn’t see it. He knew to brace himself for the inevitable flirt/come-on. “Maybe if you were sleepin’ in _my_ bed, Goldilocks, you’d have sweeter dreams.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Peter folded his own arms on his knees and hunched forward to rest his head on them. Almost of their own accord, his tired eyes slipped shut. When that hot-sauce/sand/broken glass feeling that thrummed under his lids began to go away, Peter moaned, as unconsciously sybaritic a thing as had ever come out of his mouth. Next to him, Deadpool made a semi-strangled sound and shifted.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Petey,” he muttered hoarsely. “If you slept in _my_ bed, I’d keep you makin’ noises like _that_ all damn night _and_ day!”

 

“Piffle,” Peter dismissed, channeling his Aunt May. In his rather limited experience, guys tended to _promise_ much—Harry Osborn, Peter’s first, on-again/off-again boyfriend came to mind—but rarely _deliver_. Though Peter assumed his own . . . enhanced spidey-libido may have contributed to his past sexual dissatisfaction. “You talk a good game, DP, but I’ll bet that’s _all_ you are: _talk_. And anyway, you know I’m not blond. _Goldilocks_ is a _horrible_ nickname.”

 

“Maybe,” Deadpool allowed, shifting some more. When Peter felt the merc’s body-heat along his side, followed by the merc, himself—a not-unpleasant bulk of thick, solid muscle and sun-and-action-warmed leather . . . plus the scent of that leather mixed with sweat, as well as something uniquely _masculine_ that was all _Deadpool_ —Peter hummed again, contentedly slipping into a quick half-sleep. Life had, since he was fifteen, made it necessary to catch power-naps whenever he could get them. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’d napped on Deadpool. At a crime-scene, no less. “But you certainly ain’t a _bear_ , Baby Boy. You’re _definitely_ a _twink_.”

 

“Not a twink,” Peter mumbled, snorting back toward wakefulness just enough to protest.

 

“Oh, sure, you are,” Deadpool said gleefully, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders and pulling him closer. “Ain’t a _damn_ thing wrong with _that_. You wear it so well, _I_ got no complaints. You’re the prettiest twink—prettiest guy, _period_ —I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Meh,” Peter said again. Deadpool was full of blarney. Blarney and come-ons. Peter was _okay-looking_. . . neither tall nor short, lean build, ordinary brown eyes and brown hair that was never tamed for long. Pleasant, unremarkable features and a nice enough smile. Not a sore for sight-eyes, but he wasn’t _pretty_. “The cops take your statement, yet?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Please tell me you didn’t talk to them about my ass, again?”

 

“I—” Deadpool shifted once more, his fingers drumming nervously on Peter’s shoulder. “I _may_ have mentioned its superior firmness and shapely dimensions. . . .”

 

“ _Wade_. . . !” Now Peter was fully awake again, sitting up and throwing Deadpool’s beefy arm off his shoulder. He ignored the pang he felt at its loss. He’d had ample experience at ignoring similar pangs caused by Deadpool for _years_ , now. “And I wonder why no one in this city takes me seriously except J.J.-fucking-Jameson! You . . . _douche-canoe_!”

 

“ _Spidey_. . . .” Deadpool whined. “I’m _sorry_! It’s just—your _ass_ is, like, divine! It only gets more divine with time and repeated exposure to it! Not talking about it is like not talking about a beautiful work of art!”

 

“And yet, I’ve never heard you say _peep_ about the _Mona Lisa_ or _Michelangelo’s David_. _Or_ their asses.”

 

Peter could hear the leer before Deadpool even spoke, this time. “Ah, but Baby Boy, David’s ass ain’t got _nothin’_ on _yours_!”

 

Peter gaped over at Deadpool for almost a minute before he snorted and looked toward the bombed-out _CVS_ —it was still smoking, and firefighters were still going in and out with some urgency—biting back a laugh. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. “You’re incorrigible, Wade.”

 

“Pssh! You college-boys and your fancy, five dollar words.”

 

Peter only let himself smile because he had the mask on. It didn’t do to outwardly encourage Deadpool. _That way_ only led to shenanigans.

 

With a groan, he levered himself back to his feet, stretching kinks out of his spine. Deadpool muttered again, probably to his Boxes, but stood with Peter, doing the same.

 

“Snap-crackle-pop!” The mercenary giggled at the various sounds their bodies made, while Peter only winced. One of these days, superheroing would kill him. Probably painfully. _Ah, well,_ he thought without much regret for his life-choices.

 

“C’mon,” he said, fighting a titanic yawn of his own. “Lemme grab my stuff from the alley and I’ll give you a lift home.”

 

“Cool beans, Spidey!” Deadpool’s arm bumped Peter’s repeatedly as they schlepped toward the alley, his hand brushing Peter’s, as well. “I’m so tired, I could sleep for a week!” A soft sigh. “Fuck, but I didn’t even get the stuff I was supposed to at the pharmacy.”

 

“Eh.” Peter rolled his shoulders as they stepped into the piss-smelling shade of the alley. He stalked quickly toward the dumpster where he’d stashed his grubby backpack. It was, of course, still there. Not that there was much to steal but his square-bear internship clothes, and a textbook on biochemistry that was three inches thick and filled with _very_ tiny print. After checking to make sure everything was, indeed, still in his bag, he slung it on his back and turned to face the wall behind the dumpster. “Hop on. What did you need? Can it wait till tomorrow?”

 

“Nah.” Deadpool wrapped his arms under Peter's and around his chest, and hiked his legs up around Peter’s waist, flattening the backpack to Peter’s back as he began the climb up the wall of a barely-damaged _Big Bubble Laundromat_. As they rose higher, that piss-smell began to thankfully fade. “Ellie’s got a cold. Left her with my neighbor, Consuela, while I went to get some cold medicine and shit. Maybe some candy to cheer her up.”

 

On the roof, Peter looked north, toward Deadpool’s new place—which he really _had_ been meaning to stop by and see, but his internship and the _Bugle_ had been keeping him so busy, lately, as well as college and crime-fighting, that the few hours of spare time he had were spent falling asleep over the one meal per day he was _usually_ assured of getting—and patted Deadpool’s right knee to make sure he had the mercenary’s wandering attention. His chin was on Peter’s shoulder and he was mumbling near Peter’s ear, talking to one or both of the Boxes.

 

“Okay, there’s a pharmacy nearer to your place than that _CVS_ was, right, big guy?”

 

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, there is. There’s a _Duane Reade_ , a block away from my new place that I used to go to back in the day. But I don’t go there since that time I bought all that _Raid_ to get rid of those damn butterflies,” Deadpool finished darkly. Peter blinked.

 

“Your old place was infested—I’m not even sure that’s the right word—with _butterflies_? When was this?” Peter remembered the cockroaches. And the mice. And that really annoying poltergeist. But not _butterflies_.

 

“Nah, not my _place_. I had butterflies in my _stomach_. Yellow suggested bug spray to get rid of them. White wanted to go with _Black Flag_ , but Yellow was reminded of the band, which he hates. So we went with _Raid_ , instead. Like, six cans of it. Which I drank.” Deadpool shuddered so hard, Peter shook with it, too. “One of the worst ways to unalive I’ve _ever_ experienced. Liquefied my fucking organs for _hours_ before I puked and shat ‘em out, then died in agony. Shit _tasted_ _nasty_ , too.”

 

Horrified as much by Deadpool’s casual tone, as his casual admission, Peter couldn’t even find anything to say to that, at first. Then he was sighing and shaking his head. “Wade . . . buddy, you _know_ that’s just a figure of speech, right? ‘Butterflies in your stomach’? That’s not a _literal_ _thing_.”

 

“Are you _sure_?” Deadpool asked dubiously, clutching Peter tighter as they crossed the rooftop.

 

“Yes, Wade, I’m sure. Like, ten thousand percent sure. I’m a scientist.”

 

“I dunno, Petey . . . I still get those damn things in my gut sometimes—and more often than I used to. Though I learned my lesson about drinking bug spray! You betchyer sweet ass!”

 

Concerned, Peter started them toward Deadpool’s new place, sending a line to the nearest building and swinging, smiling a little at Deadpool’s joyful: “Wheeeee!”

 

“So . . . you get that butterflies-feeling in your stomach a lot? How often does it happen? Do you know what might be causing it?” Peter asked as they landed on another roof, startling some pigeons into flight. He tried not to think things like _ulcer_ or _cancer_. Because Deadpool was another one of those constants in Peter's life. He could heal from _anything_ , right?

 

Right?

 

“I get it a _lot_. And always around _you_. _Only_ around you, in fact.” Deadpool sounded genuinely puzzled. “Sometimes, I think I’m gonna _barf_ up a Monarch or something. But then I look at you ‘til the feeling settles and turns into this weird warmth that spreads out from my gut, to all over. _That_ part of it isn’t so bad.” Peter nearly fumbled the next line he shot, shocked and blushing. Deadpool kept talking, totally unaware of Peter’s sudden understanding and trouble aiming. “Anyway, I think I might be a _leeeeeetle_ allergic to you, Petey-pie. Which, you know, ain’t _your_ fault. Not blaming _you_ , nossir! But I’m just saying . . . in case I really _do_ start barfing around you, that’s probably why, so don’t be alarmed. But we can still hang out! In fact, I _insist_! I miss seeing that pretty face next to me at five in the morning, losing so bad to me at _Mario_ _Kart_. And Ellie misses her Uncle Spidey. . . .”

 

“And Uncle Spidey misses his Ellie,” Peter said quietly on the next roof. This one had about forty-six rats, squaring off and about to have a little ratty donnybrook. Deadpool noticed and shrieked, pointing one shaking finger at the conflagration.

 

“TURF WAR!” he screeched in Peter’s ear, causing the other man to stagger a bit. “The Sharks and the Jets! _Shit_ , Petey, am-scray! Away! _Away_!”

 

Rolling his eyes and never minding Deadpool’s sudden strangle-hold, Peter strode calmly between the two groups of rat-combatants, minding his own business. The rats paid him absolutely no mind, eerily quiet as they sized each other up. Then Peter was off to the next building, only just noticing the loud, desperate squeaks of rats fighting to the death that started up immediately behind him.

 

By the time they reached the _Duane Reade_ in Deadpool’s neighborhood, arriving on the sidewalk with a _spectacular_ superhero-landing that garnered them not so much as a glance— _God, I love New York!_ Peter thought, still buzzing with exhilaration—Peter was feeling like he’d gotten a second wind. For a little while, anyway. Luckily, though, Deadpool knew exactly what he was looking for in the pharmacy, found it fast—while still hypothesizing on why rats were having a turf war in the middle of the day, and what it might mean for the city, and humanity in general—dragging Peter to the checkout counter. The cashier blinked at them, rolled her eyes, and popped her gum. Then she started ringing up Deadpool’s twelve bottles of _Robitussin Junior_ , _Chloriseptic_ throat spray, _Theraflu_ , _Children’s Aspirin_ , _Flintstone Vitamins_ (like, eight bottles), a heating pad, a thermometer, and a bag of _Werther’s Originals_ caramels.

 

“You and your progeny have terrible taste in candy,” Peter complained, making a face. Deadpool grinned wide under the mask, creasing the leather.

 

“ _You’re_ the one with terrible taste in candy, Spidey. I mean, _Swedish Fish_? Really? Nineteen-eighty-five called and it wants its candy back.” Deadpool chortled manically.

 

“Yeah, well, _Werther’s Originals_? Nineteen- _twenty_ -five called and it said stop reminiscing about your childhood in the Yukon, DP.” Peter huffed, but reluctantly stuffed the bag of _Swedish Fish_ he'd picked up in the rack with the _T.V Guides_.

 

“An age-diss? Ouch! Fake laugh, hiding real pain!” Deadpool snatched Peter’s impulse-buys from him—a case of _Monster_ energy drink (imported), a metric half-ton of _Jack Link’s_ teriyaki beef jerky (Peter went through protein like a _fiend . . ._ especially when it was teriyaki-flavored), a pint container of _Turkey Hill_ Neapolitan frozen yogurt, and a box of _Twinkies_ . . . more than enough stuff to exhaust Peter's extremely limited funds, but this was _very_ _much_ a _treat_ _yo'_ _self_ kind of day—put it on the counter with his stuff, and squinted at the cashier’s name-tag. “This’s all together, uh, LaTiqua.”

 

Unimpressed, the cashier sighed and continued ringing up their things. Peter elbowed Deadpool in the side and the mercenary giggled like the _Pillsbury_ dough-boy. “You don’t have to pay for my unhealthy habits, DP.”

 

“I know I don’t. But I _want_ to.” Deadpool shrugged, and Peter left it at that, not even digging for his wallet. This was him, not starting an argument he’d never won once, in five-plus years of knowing Deadpool. The man showered him in snacks, pancakes, tacos, and attempted ass-grabbings. “And anyway, the beef jerky, at least, is . . . well, sorta, _almost_ healthy, Baby Boy.”

 

“No, it’s not.” Peter snorted a laugh.

 

When LaTiqua told them their total, Deadpool whipped out a fat roll of cash from one of the pockets on his utility belt, and paid with five hundred-dollar bills. This being a _Duane Reade_ in a somewhat tone-y part of Manahattan, Deadpool only got back about three dollars in change, not that he cared. He shoved the three bucks and assorted coins at Peter, who took them, shaking his head and cramming the money into the front compartment of his backpack. He stuffed the jerky, _Twinkies_ , and fro-yo in the back compartment. The heavy case of _Monster_ he carried, just as Deadpool carried his purchases. They thanked LaTiqua and wished her a good day—Deadpool even grabbed her hand and shook it—and they were on their way, leaving behind a gaping cashier.

 

Deadpool loudly hummed “ _If I Only Had a Brain_ ,” all the way to his apartment building, loftily ignoring Peter’s stifled snickers.

 

#

 

Deadpool let them into the eighth-floor apartment with a flourish and Peter looked around, impressed and whistling like he was. The place was clean, airy, and bright, still sparsely-furnished, but comfortable-looking. The floors were unblemished hardwood, the walls painted white. The windows were positively _huge_ , with nice, lace-edged, light-blue curtains.

 

“C’mon, kitchen’s this way, Pete,” Deadpool tossed over his shoulder, moving quietly down the hall, just past the living room and what appeared to be a small office. It held a desk with a huge flatscreen monitor, a leather chair, and mostly-empty bookshelves. And there was a microscope on one of the shelves . . . just a lone, high school-style microscope. . . .

 

“Huh. Nice home office you’ve got, DP. Not that I imagined you as the home office-type. . . .” Peter added wryly. Deadpool turned into a wide archway, which it turned out lead to the kitchen. Which was _big_. No doubt a priority for Deadpool, who was a fantastic and prolific cook. So, of course, the kitchen had a lot of fancy mod-cons, too, like a blender, a _Keurig_ coffee maker, a toaster _and_ toaster oven, and microwave. Even a pasta maker. Peter’s stomach growled pitifully. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Probably Tuesday.

 

“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for _you_ , Dr. Scientist,” Deadpool said, laying his bags on the kitchen table and taking stuff out. He perused a label closely while Peter stared at him, gaping.

 

“Uh . . . for _me_?”

 

“Yeah. For when you move in.”

 

“I’m moving in?” Peter blinked then blushed.

 

“Oh, eventually, I guess. When you do, I figure a nerd like you’ll need an office with office-crap in it. Hence _this_ place. Really, the office was the deal-breaker. I was _very_ firm with my real estate-agent,” Deadpool said proudly, glancing at Peter. “Heyya, keep your mask on for a few, huh? Just while I see Conseula out . . . . in case she pokes her head in here. And don’t forget to put your fro-yo in the freezer!”

 

Deadpool exited the kitchen with his bottles of cold medicine and the terrible candy, and turned left, presumably towards Ellie’s room.

 

“Um. _‘Kaaaaay_ ,” Peter told the empty kitchen, still blushing and gobsmacked.

 

#

 

When the front door closed behind Consuela—Deadpool still laughing at something she’d said in _fast,_ colloquial Spanish that Peter’s clumsy, half-forgotten high school Spanish couldn’t parse—Peter pulled off his mask and dropped it on the kitchen table.

 

He popped open a _Monster_ —‘cause, let’s face it, _life_ —and guzzled a third of it down, reveling in the natural-sugar goodness. Then he tore open the top of a bag of _Jack Link’s_ and was happily gnawing on some jerky when Deadpool sauntered into the kitchen, pulling his own mask off. His grey-brown eyes were amused as he took in Peter, sitting at the kitchen table, with his feet up on one of the three remaining chairs.

 

“Lookit you, all comfortable like you already live here, Baby Boy.”

 

“Apparently I will, at some point in the future. I’ve even got an office, or so I've been told,” Peter added lazily around a mouthful of jerky, chuckling when Deadpool shoved his feet off the chair and pushed the chair back in toward the table.

 

“Ellie’s awake and feeling better. Wants to see her Uncle Spidey before she falls asleep again. C'mon,” Deadpool said, his smile gentling to the one only Ellie inspired. Peter’s heart did some sort of weird calisthenics in his chest and he swallowed the half-masticated meat.

 

“It’d be my pleasure,” he replied almost gravely, standing up and closing his energy drink. He followed Deadpool out of the kitchen and down the hall to a partially closed door decorated with several taped-up drawings of unicorns. Peter could even tell which drawings were done by Ellie and which ones were done by Deadpool. He smiled as Deadpool knocked quietly, pushing the door wider.

 

Ellie Camacho-Wilson was in her red, white, and blue Team Cap pajamas, sitting on her green race car bed, coughing quietly as she played with her action figures. They _appeared_ to be a little Spider-Man . . . and a little Deadpool. . . .

 

“Now, _kiss_!” she chirped, bringing the two dolls together with a plastic _clack!_ Peter’s face went red again and he looked away.

 

“Heyya, there's my favorite little _senorita_ , right where I left her!” Deadpool said softly, and Ellie grinned as she looked up, dropping her dolls. She bounced to her feet and ran into her father’s waiting arms, giggling as he swung her up and around, noisily, wetly kissing her round cheeks.

 

“Daddy! Daddy!” She squealed as he flew her around, airplane-style, for a few seconds. Her long, dark-brown hair streamed like a banner. “I’m gonna barf all over your _head_!”

 

“Eww! Yuck! _Ellie-barf_! That’s the grossest _kind_!” Deadpool laughed, settling her against his chest as her giggles tapered off. She blinked Deadpool’s grey-brown eyes, wide and round in her _café con leche_ face, at Peter. He waved almost shyly. (Peter had long been of the opinion that he was no good with children—and hadn’t been, even and especially when he _was_ one—and so every time he interacted with Ellie, it took him a little while to relax around her.)

 

“Hi, Uncle Spidey!” Ellie exclaimed brightly, coughing a little as she did. “We’re in a new apartment!”

 

“So I see.” Peter chuckled. “It’s very nice.”

 

“Did Daddy show you your office, yet? It’s _cool_ , isn’t it?” Ellie scowled a little. “But Daddy says I’m not ‘llowed to play in there ‘til _you_ say so. Can I? Can I?”

 

“Uh, sure. I don’t see why not, sweetheart,” Peter said hesitantly, glancing at Deadpool, who rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Just, uh . . . try not to knock stuff over, and I’ll show you how to use the microscope when you're feeling better.”

 

“Yay!” Ellie whooped, nearly spilling her tiny body out of Deadpool’s arms. “I wanna look at my _snot_ under the microscope!”

 

Peter grinned. “I did that once—when I wasn’t much older than you—when my Uncle Ben gave me a microscope for Christmas. Mucus is _really_ fascinating!”

 

Ellie’s brow furrowed. “What’s _mucus_?”

 

“That’s just a fancy science-name for snot and phlegm.”

 

“Ohhhh.” Ellie’s smile was huge. She loved acquiring new words. “Daddy, can I look at _your_ mucus, too?” She gazed up at Deadpool who seemed somewhat dismayed, somewhat green, before kissing her forehead.

 

“Yeah, sure, kiddo. If you _really_ _wanna_ . . . Jesus, Parker . . . two minutes, and you’ve turned my kid into a _mini_ _chick-you_ ,” Deadpool threw Peter a mildly-disgusted look. Peter laughed.

 

“Hey, it’s not _my_ fault Ellie’s such a smart and curious kid. Right, Ellie?”

 

“Right, Uncle Spidey!” Ellie crowed in agreement. Then she turned a very serious look on Peter. “Um, Uncle Spidey?”

 

“Yes, honey?”

 

Ellie tilted her head in the same way Deadpool did when he was curious and excited about something important. “Daddy said I should call you _Mommy_ , now, because soon, we’re gonna be a family and all live here together . . . is that true?”

 

Peter’s eyes widened . . . then narrowed as he glanced at Deadpool, whose own eyes were wide, too, with shock and guilt. Then he plastered an awkward smile on his scarred face, avoiding Peter’s eyes. “Wow! And, just like that, it’s time for all good little Ellies to take a nap! We wanna be rested to fight this cold, right? Right!”

 

“But, Daddy—” Ellie began, and Deadpool clamped one big hand over her mouth—most of her face, really—and turned toward her bed.

 

“Yep! Nap-time! All aboard the sleepy-train! Choo-choo!” He hushed Ellie as he laid her in bed and tucked her in tight. Ellie still kept trying to talk—she was Deadpool’s daughter, alright—batting her father’s hand away from her face when he went to cover her mouth again. She was gazing at Peter with wide, hopeful eyes.

 

“Uncle Spidey . . . I want a story,” she said so sweetly, Deadpool stopped trying to cover her mouth and looked over his shoulder at Peter, who’d crossed his arms. “My _first_ Mommy used to read me stories before I went to sleep. Could _you_ read me a story? _Please_?”

 

“I, uh,” Peter managed nervously, momentarily forgetting his annoyance with Deadpool. He’d never read to anyone before—except when he was very little and first learning to read. He had vague memories of reading to his mother out of his simple primers and eventually Dr. Seuess . . . but surely _that_ didn’t count, did it? “I’m . . . probably not as good at telling stories as your Daddy is, Ellie.” Peter shot a look at Deadpool, who blushed and cleared his throat. “I haven’t told anyone a story in a long, long time.”

 

“But I bet you’re still really good, though! I can tell!” Ellie said excitedly, sitting up a little and pointing at her small, pink bookshelf against the opposite wall. “I wanna hear _Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day_!”

 

“Ellie-vator, didn’t Consuela just finish reading that to you?” Deadpool asked sternly. Ellie bit her lip.

 

“Maaaaybe . . . but I wanna hear it _again_! From Uncle Spidey!” Ellie pouted and Deadpool sighed, looking to Peter once more.

 

“You don’t have to, Pete. Someone’s just being a B-R-A-T because she’s S-I-C-K,” he said quietly. Ellie rolled her eyes because, clearly, she could spell at least as well as Deadpool could.

 

Peter found himself unwillingly charmed by them both and it crumpled the last of his apparently weak resolve. “It’s, uh . . . not a problem. I don’t mind. I guess we’re gonna find out if Uncle Spider-Man can still tell a decent story, huh, Ellie?” he said with anxious jocularity. Ellie clapped her little hands together, beaming at Peter like he'd hung the moon.

 

And Deadpool, proving once again that the apple really _didn’t_ fall far from the tree, did the same. Minus the hand-clapping.

 

#

 

By the time Peter was halfway through the book, Ellie’s eyes were heavy.

 

When he turned the last page, they were closed completely and, smiling, he returned the book to her rather full little bookshelf. Then he started quietly for the door, mentally preparing for his approaching _chat_ with Deadpool.

 

“Uncle Spidey?”

 

At the sound of Ellie’s slightly raw little voice. Peter turned back to the bed, instantly moving closer to the half-asleep girl. “Yeah, sweetie? I’m still here.”

 

Ellie’s sleepy smile was eerily like Deadpool’s when he’d had his fill of really _good_ tacos. “I’m glad you’re gonna be my new Mommy.”

 

Sighing, Peter refrained from shaking his head. Deadpool was _so_ . . . _dead,_ just the moment Peter got his hands on him. “And, uh, why is that, honey?”

 

“’Cause you tell stories good—as good as Daddy does!—and you’re fun and you smell nice and you like to do fun things like look at mucus and you make Daddy happy,” Ellie said, all on one exhale, her nearly-shut eyes locked on Peter’s. “I can’t wait ‘til you move in with us and start being my Mommy _all the time_. 'Cause I need a new one _real bad_.”

 

Peter blinked several times before leaning down to kiss Ellie’s forehead like Deadpool had.

 

“You’re the best little girl in the whole wide world, Ellie Camacho-Wilson,” Peter whispered against her just-barely-too-warm skin. “Anyone would be _lucky_ to be your Mommy, sweet girl.”

 

By the time he stopped blinking—by the time the overwhelming emotions churning in his heart settled—and stood up, Ellie was fast asleep.

 

#

 

Heart still ablaze with emotion, mind still awhirl with _realization_ , Peter changed back into his civvies (except for his shoes) in the kitchen, then girded himself, and made his way to the living room.

 

Deadpool was sitting on the ginormous, comfortable-looking sofa—also in civvies of red plaid pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt with the Spider-Man logo, that was tight across his chiseled chest and big arms—drinking the rest of Peter’s _Monster_ and staring into space.

 

“Now you’ve got spidey-cooties,” Peter tsked wryly and Deadpool started, glancing over and smiling limply.

 

“Hey, Pete.” He waved a hand at the sofa and put the empty can on the end of the coffee table. “Pull up a rock.”

 

Peter padded in socked feet toward the couch. But instead of sitting next to Deadpool, as he usually did, he perched on the big—hideous—baroque coffee table. Deadpool watched him with Ellie’s wide eyes and bit his chapped lower lip hesitantly. Then he was looking down at Peter’s knees, which he seemed to find terribly interesting.

 

“So, uh . . . how’d story-time go?”

 

“Pretty good, if I do say so, myself. I'm a natural.” Peter tilted his head down in an attempt to catch Deadpool’s eyes. An attempt which failed. He sighed and twiddled his toes impatiently. “Ellie’s sleeping soundly.”

 

“Good. I knew she would be—kid takes after her mother in that way: sleeps like the dead, thank goodness. And she _loves_ her Uncle Spidey, so . . . yeah.” Deadpool smiled a little, risking a look up at Peter. “Thanks for that, by the way. For humoring Ellie . . . and for not chewing me a new asshole in front of her.”

 

“It was the least I could do, Wade. And I was glad to do it.” Peter leaned back a little, hands braced on the coffee table. “She’s such a wonderful child. I . . . _love_ her, too. Dunno when _that_ started, but I look at her and I just wanna . . . give her _all the things_ , you know?"

 

Deadpool’s smile widened, gentled, made Peter’s heart do those familiar calisthenics again, no less intense for him being used to them, by now. _How_ , he wondered bemusedly, eyes skating unabashedly, _besottedly_ over Deadpool's scarred, rugged features, unable to get his fill, _have I misread myself for so long_?

 

“Yeah. She has that effect on people.” Deadpool sighed. “Gets _that_ from her mother, too. Well . . . at least she doesn’t get it from _me_ , anyway.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Peter murmured, smiling, himself, as Deadpool’s expression went blank in surprise. “You’re not exactly unlovable, DP . . . _Wade_.”

 

Deadpool snorted. “Pull the other one, Spidey-babe. It plays _Love Me Tender_.”

 

Peter bit his lip just as nervously as Deadpool had a minute ago. He had absolutely _no idea_ what the fuck he thought he was doing. But for once in his life, he was going to play something that _wasn’t_ a boss-fight by ear. Roll with life on nothing but gut-level instinct.

 

“I'm, um . . . I’m serious, Wade. I think you’re . . . pretty fantastic.”

 

“And here I thought spiders had really good eyesight and taste. . . .”

 

Peter shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t do that, DP.”

 

“Why not? I speak only the truth,” Deadpool said, voice flat but suspiciously light as he stood abruptly. Peter blinked up at Deadpool, who was staring down at him with a rueful, but yearning look. “I’m . . . fuckin’ _terrifying_ about the face, Petey. Morally grey. And all _kindsa_ crazy, to boot. I’m not exactly a catch. Believe me, I know that.”

 

“Wade—”

 

“No, hear me out, Peter,” Deadpool said grimly, but sincerely. “What I told Ellie . . . I mean, it’d be _nice_ if it could be like _that_ , I ain’t gonna lie . . . but I know it never _could_ be. You know . . . could never be _you and me_ . . . like a _couple_. But I still meant what I said about you movin’ in here. You’d have your own room, rent-free, and you’d have your office and microscope, and you could look at mucus _all day_ , if you wanted! And I’d make you home-cooked meals every day, too, and you wouldn’t have to work two jobs just to stay in that shithole apartment you live in, freezing in the winter, sweltering in the summer, and _starving_ year-round. And you’d be _good_ for Ellie and me—teach us manners and algebra and shit—all that good stuff—and help her with her homework sometimes, if you weren’t too busy. And maybe Ellie and me’d be good for _you_ , too! We’d make ya _laugh_ and, y’know, that’s something you could stand to do _more_ of, Petey-pie. You’ve got, like, the _best_ laugh in the world and a smile to match. And—”

 

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter interrupted, chuckling as he grabbed Deadpool’s hands and tugged on them with a bit of spidey-strength. The other man sat down hard on the edge of the couch, his gaze miserable and resigned as he watched Peter . . . who watched him back, smiling just a bit.

 

“Yeah, Petey?” Deadpool ventured, when Peter had stared at him for a while without saying anything.

 

Suddenly, Peter’s smile turned into a wide grin and he tugged on Deadpool’s hands again—this time _without_ the spidey-strength. Deadpool moved closer without hesitation, his rough, imperfect . . . _beloved_ face a confused question.

 

“Shut up,” Peter whispered, leaning in close, until his lips were pressed against Deadpool’s—against _Wade’s_. For a moment, anyway . . . Wade stiffened and pulled away almost instantly, staring at Peter as if he’d grown a second head. (Momentarily worried, Peter cautiously took stock of his body . . . still just the one head, thank goodness).

 

“What—what’re you _doin’_ , Baby Boy?” Wade asked, his gravelly, low voice reaching weirdly high, missish tones. Peter shrugged, still grinning.

 

“I’m going with my gut, Wade. _And_ my heart.” He squeezed Wade’s hands, tugging on them again. This time, however, Wade resisted, his face a wary wall, now.

 

“But—but—you’re— _this_ —” he stammered, trying to free his hands. Then he stopped and took a deep breath. “Listen, kiddo, I know you . . . I know you feel _bad_ for me, sometimes, and that’s fine. I get it. _I’d_ feel bad for me, too, the run of luck I’ve had in my life. But you don’t have to . . . give me a _pity-grope_ , or whatever this’s shaping up to be.”

 

Peter’s grin settled back into a fond smile, one that made Wade blink and the wariness melt slowly away, only to be replaced by a look so hopeless and helpless, it was almost despair. Peter’s heart felt as if it’d fly right out of his chest to take up lodging in Wade’s. Maybe _forever_. And Peter wouldn't mind if it did. He couldn't think of a better home for his weary, wary heart than Wade Wilson. He took a deep breath and sighed, accepting that epiphany and kicking himself for being ten kinds of oblivious fool. “I can’t believe it took me _this_ long to realize I’m absolutely _bonkers_ over you, Wilson.”

 

“Don’t . . . don’t _play_ with me like this, Pete,” Wade whispered, his voice shaking and eyes suddenly more vulnerable than any Peter had ever seen. Wade looked away, shaking his head. “It’s cruel and _painful_ , and just . . . please _don’t_.”

 

Peter didn’t, for a few moments, know how to respond to that. To Wade’s refusal to _believe_ what he was trying to say . . . but then he felt a tingle—almost like his spidey-sense, only in his _soul_ or something, instead of the base of his spine—and slid off the coffee table, onto the couch, straddling Wade’s thighs and pulling the mercenary’s arms around his waist. Wade reluctantly looked up at Peter as if at least _one_ of them had gone quite mad.

 

“Pete . . . what the hell. . . ?”

 

“I _love you_ , Wade Wilson,” Peter murmured, leaning in for another kiss. This one, Wade allowed, though he didn’t return it. “I love you, Deadpool.” Another kiss. “And I love you, White.” A third kiss. “I love you, Yellow.”

 

One final kiss, this one lingering, then Peter started to pull away to gauge Wade’s reaction. But before he could get more than a micrometer away, the hands resting loosely on his waist tightened then slid down to his ass, squeezing hard and pulling him close again.

 

“You’re the only thing—besides Ellie—that _all_ of me’s _ever_ agreed on, Pete, and so help me . . . I _need_ you,” Wade breathed on Peter’s lips before capturing them in a hard, desperate kiss.

 

Moaning hungrily, triumphantly, Peter wrapped his arms around Wade’s neck, relaxing into the other man’s kiss and embrace like he’d never meant to be anywhere else. Eventually, the desperation settled into something closer to desire. The near-violent clash of lips and teeth, and the bash of their noses became a slower, gentler duel of tongues.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Baby Boy,” Wade panted when they _had_ to come up for air or pass the fuck out. “We love you _so much_. _I_ love you so much. I always have. So even if this _is_ pity—”

 

“It's _not_ pity, Wade. It's love. I _love_ you.” Peter leaned back just enough to look Wade square in the eye. “Took me forever to realize it, but I do, now. I do, now. I love you. You hear me, everyone in there? _I love you, too_. And I _want_ you.”

 

Then Peter was leaning in once more to nuzzle Wade’s cheek, jaw, and neck, causing the mercenary to squeeze his ass even tighter and pull him even closer. Wade had gotten hard _ridiculously_ fast and Peter wriggled around against that huge hardness, letting it spur his own body on. One of Wade’s hands slid up Peter’s back and nape, into his hair, gripping it firmly, but not painfully. He used it to pull Peter’s head back up and claim his mouth again, his kiss playful, this time . . . teasing and wet.

 

“You’re—wow!—an amazing kisser,” Peter noted breathlessly, about ten amazing, quickly-passed minutes later, leaning his forehead against Wade’s. Now, they were _both_ hard, and shifting and grinding against each other ceaselessly, but as if they had all the time in the world. Wade’s grin was positively _predatory_.

 

“I know,” he said with neither humility nor hubris, just a simple acknowledgement of his talents. “You ain’t half-bad, yourself, Peter-Peter-Pumpkin-Eater.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes fondly. “You and the nicknames, Wade . . . it’s getting _really_ out of hand. How would you like it if I started calling _you_ all sorts of weird nicknames?”

 

The hand on Peter’s ass clenched, fingers pressing as far between his cheeks as they could get, what with Peter’s khakis and boxers in the way. Wade’s grin became a lazy, self-satisfied smile as he tugged on Peter’s hair in a way that had Peter practically purring with pleasure. “ _No_ , White, the alliteration was _purely_ coincidental, but that still doesn’t make it bad writing,” he said absently, looking distracted and annoyed for a moment. Peter’s brows quirked.

 

“Boxes?” Wade nodded and Peter chuckled, nuzzling Wade’s nose. “White, please chill out and stop being a dick to Wade.”

 

“You tell him, baby! Nothing that asshole likes better than cock-blockin' me!” Wade grumbled.

 

“Well,” Peter said, gazing at Wade from under his eyelashes. “Don’t _let_ him.”

 

“ _Believe_ _me_ , I won’t. Anyway, I think even _White_ wants this, just as much as I do . . . he just has _no_ game, whatsoever. Unlike Yellow, who’s one smooth pimp,” Wade admitted enviously, then waggled his eyebrows. “As for nicknames . . . _you_ can call me _Daddy_ , too, if you want. Uh, in the bedroom, anyway.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Peter ground against Wade _extra_ slow and hard, resulting in a soft groan and a very _naughty_ string of swear-laced promises. “Let’s see you _make_ me. _Daddy_.”

 

“ _Damn_ , Petey . . . damn,” Wade exhaled at Peter's low, sultry tone, stealing three exceptionally _dirty_ kisses before getting his hands under Peter’s ass and standing up. Peter automatically wrapped his legs around Wade’s waist as the other man carried him down the hall—quietly, so as not to wake Ellie—to the last room on the right.

 

“My room,” he said unnecessarily as he gently kicked the door open and carried Peter—who was nibbling Wade’s auricle and ear lobe—in. He kicked the door shut behind them and made his way to the obscenely large, sturdy-looking, four-post bed. Other than wall-to-wall Spider-Man posters and drawings, a dresser, and several weapons racks—the nearest of which currently held the usual suspects from Wade's personal arsenal—the bedroom was fairly Spartan.

 

Peter expected to be dropped and pounced on . . . but instead, he was gently laid down and gazed upon. For so long, he blushed and laughed.

 

“Come _here_ , Wade,” he finally commanded, exasperated and . . . still having the realization that he was utterly in love, maybe for the first time in his life. He held out his arms expectantly, and Wade’s smile was sweet—still uncertain, but then, Rome wasn’t built in a day—and adoring as he carefully knelt on the bed, between Peter’s legs and, keeping his weight on his forearms, leaned down to kiss the bridge, then the tip of Peter’s nose. Then his lips, lingering to taste them and map out Peter’s mouth unhurriedly.

 

Peter hummed into the kiss, pulling Wade down on top of him fully, wrapping legs around Wade’s mid-back.

 

“Wow, you’re, like, _really_ bendy, huh?” Wade broke the kiss to appreciate this with dawning wonder. Peter waggled _his_ eyebrows, this time.

 

“And double-jointed, too. All thanks to my spidey-enhancements . . . _surprise_!” Wade’s eyes turned into saucers and Peter laughed again. “Now, where were we, stud?”

 

“I—I, uh, think you were about to call me _Daddy_ again, last I checked. . . .”

 

“And _I_ think _you_ were about to try and _make me_.” Peter rolled them over in a basic take-down move and attacked Wade’s neck again, pinning him and dry humping him enthusiastically, while Wade just laid there, dazed and panting. He kept murmuring to himself: _Is this real? Is this real?_ Peter answered the question with a somewhat savage purple-nurple that made Wade yelp. “ _Yes_ , it's real! So don’t just lay there and let _me_ do _all_ the work, cowboy! _Grab my ass and start_ squeezing!”

 

Wade moaned and quickly, happily obeyed. “Yes, _sir_ , Baby Boy, sir! Fuck, I _love_ me a _bossy_ power-bottom! I tell ya, Petey-boy—”

 

Peter's laugh turned into a fond groan. _Wade_ , he thought as he gazed down into dazed, delighted eyes. _I love you, you complete douche._

 

And he was, of course,  _endlessly_ delighted by the feel of Wade’s powerful, possessive hands on his ass and the bruises they were no doubt leaving on his fair skin . . . and a few moments later, he thankfully found some better things for Wade to do with his mouth than _talk_. Things that, sooner than Peter would’ve thought, wrung a breathlessly gasped _Yes! Daddy!_ from his kiss-swollen lips as, for the first time in _ever_ , even _his_ spidey-libido was completely satisfied.

 

And when he finally collapsed into a sated, wrung-out _wreck_ under Wade—many, _many_ hours later—his dreams were, indeed, sweet.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this lovely Spideypool art by Lkikai @ Tumblr (http://stalker-multiship.tumblr.com/post/148714847685/spideypool216-by-lkikai), which I found at the awesome Fuckyeahdeadpool.Tumblr.com. In which Deadpool is holding his eight-years-old daughter, Ellie, and she’s addressing Spider-Man—who’s standing right there—“Hi! Uncle Spidey! My Daddy says I should call U Mommy!” I took liberties with the picture-prompt, so as to better tell this story. But what else is new?
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)! Nine out of ten doctors recommend it!


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